There was a path from the cottage that cut through a small copse and led out onto the road which went left to Hathersage Farm and straight on down to the harbour. She wouldn’t have to pass the front of the manor house if she went that way. She left a note on the door, should nosey Gladys come back, to say that she had gone for some fresh air, then she picked up her camera, notepad and handbag and set off for the village. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was going to find something to work on before she came back to the cottage. Joan could sniff the opportunity to make money as surely as a shark could sniff blood.
She looked up into the sky to see a puff of grey cloud, far too low to be ‘real’ cloud, and remembered its presence the last time she had been to this godforsaken hole. Clouds, rain – it was rain that saved them. Was there a connection? How the hell could rain save anyone or anything?
At the bottom of the hill Dullem was bustling, as much as it could ‘bustle’ anyway. There was a market in the cobbled square. Stalls were set up around the perimeter selling fresh cheeses, bread, cakes, jams, fish and things made with lavender. There was a stall selling hot pork sandwiches with apple sauce and stuffing next to the kiosk that had once shut very rudely in her face when she had approached it to buy a coffee – like she’d be offering them any more of her money. There was a flower stall beside a man selling bric-a-brac. In fact it was all men that were running the stalls and, apart from a couple of older ladies, the customers were mainly men too. Last night she’d forgotten to get ‘Mary’ to ask why there were no women in the community. Maybe they were all chopped up and made into the local butcher’s pies and that was the real secret of Ren Dullem. Joan giggled to herself, but anything was possible in this inbred little shithole. She wondered what would happen to Carlton Hall when Edwin died. Who would inherit it? It might be worth having a look at his will if she could find it; he was bound to have a copy in the house somewhere.
She endured the stares of a man as she approached the church. He had fairish hair in unruly waves, a slick smile and very green eyes. He was handsome, if you liked the full-of-himself male who talked a good talk. That type were usually full of hot air, and rubbish in bed. She had her sights on richer pickings than men who had empty pockets and sparkling eyes, though. She recognized in the green-eyed man the male equivalent of herself: predatory, manipulative, calculating, sybaratic. Every smile was an attempt at putting a key into the lock of a heart. She had no use for him, not even as an amusing toy to outwit, and she walked on.
She took the path that snaked around the back of the church and into the graveyard. A good place to start, she thought. She began at the bottom corner by the gate: a ridiculous pet’s cemetery. Beloved pets called Corky, Jess, Bill, Lassie, some dates going back to before the war. Nothing of interest. The key date she was seeking was 1928. That was when all – whatever it was – started.
She walked over dead mothers and sons, the same names being repeated: Hathersage, Hathersage, Bird, Bird, Bird, Unwin, Coffey – the old stalwarts of the village, with dates from as far back as the 1700s to as recent as three months ago. By far the grandest grave was a huge stone effigy of a praying man, his hands pressed together, his head looking dutifully upwards. This was the grave of Reverend Jeremiah Unwin and his wife, Sarah, who both died on the same day. Merely from looking at the elaborate design of the grave, she imagined that Jeremiah Unwin would have been a man right up himself whilst pretending to be humble and God-serving.
She was just about to give up when, in the top left corner, at the furthest point from the church, she found a small overgrown path. She had to part the hedges at either side to take it. It wended left then right before opening up into a circle affording a grand view of the tiny harbour with its small outlet to the sea. A small version of Cleopatra’s Needle stood there, a carved stone obelisk bearing the lettering:
FRATRES A MARE
GILBERT CARLTON
SEYMOUR ELIAS ACASTER
JOSEPH BIRD
GERALD COFFEY
PETER JOHN DICKINSON
FREDERICK ARTHUR HATHERSAGE
WILLIAM WARD HUBBARD
ALBERT SHAW LANDERS
HARRISON ROBERT MOODY
BERNARD ANDREW SHAW
HAROLD ALFRED WILLIAM SMITH
JACK UNWIN
JOHN GEORGE WARD
1928
Thirteen names. Including Gilbert and that interesting date – 1928. But what the hell did it mean? Joan needed to cross-reference the names with the ledger now.
She scribbled the names down and returned to the main churchyard to find the relevant graves and see if they yielded any more information. Eleven of the graves were together in a long straight line. Gilbert’s grave was not in the churchyard because obviously he would be in the family vault. Strangely, at the end, outside the original boundary of the land, was the grave bearing the twelfth name: Seymour Elias Acaster: born 1909, died 1969. Joan took the camera out of her handbag and started snapping, especially at Seymour’s stone and the fence now around it. With not much else to go on, Joan wondered if the positioning was significant. Roll on Gladys buggering off home so Joan could take a long hard look at those ledgers again.
Chapter 46
‘Well, if it isn’t the witch. And where have you been with your big bag of spells?’
At the lip of the woods, Clare was arrested by the familiar voice.
‘Val. How are you today?’
‘Horny.’ He smiled. ‘How about you?’
‘Tired,’ said Clare, unable to stop a grin from pushing up the corners of her lips. He was very naughty.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Nor do I have any intention of doing so. I’ve been for a walk.’
‘What’s in the bag?’ He kicked at it with his toe.
‘Victims of my spells – people who asked too many questions.’
Val Hathersage held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Then I’ll stop asking.’
‘Good.’ Clare didn’t stop walking. She imagined that was what Colleen Landers would have done. Treat them mean, keep them keen.
‘When are you going to let me kiss you again?’ he called after her.
How about now, she wanted to shout. God, she was brazen.
‘Who knows?’ she said, over her shoulder.
She waited for him to call to her again but he didn’t and she then cursed herself for not standing and talking to him. Colleen Landers would have walked away and not given a hoot. If he didn’t come crawling after her, so what? But then Colleen knew he would because she had a confidence in herself that Clare didn’t.
Clare turned to see him walking down the hill, hands in his pockets.
‘Tomorrow at twelve?’ she called, aware that her voice was too eager, but not caring.
‘Maybe,’ came the reply.
Chapter 47
As Clare opened the door to the cottage from the outside, Lara was just opening it from the inside.
‘Ah, it’s the scrubber,’ she said.
Clare felt herself blushing slightly.
‘We’re going for something to eat. Coming?’ asked May.
‘Has all your cleaning made you hungry?’ added Lara.
Clare nodded. ‘Yep. I think I could eat something.’
It was market day in the village centre. They bought lavender bags and pressed them to their noses, remembering schooldays when they made them at their desks to bring home as Christmas presents. Apart from a couple of older ladies, they were the only females in the bustling square.
‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ May said.
‘The ratio of men to women, do you mean?’ replied Lara.
‘Maybe there’s a mermaid living here,’ May speculated.
‘What?’ the others said in unison.
‘My granny was from Cornwall. She was always full of mermaid tales, if you’ll excuse the pun.’
‘Like what?’ asked Clare.
‘Like it was good luck for sailor
s to see one.’
‘I thought it was supposed to be bad luck,’ said Lara.
‘My granny said they were good luck. They had a soft spot for sailors and would guide them away from the rocks. She said that if there was a run of boy births it was because a mermaid was in nearby waters – they get jealous that girl babies will be more beautiful than they are and take all the boys’ attention, so girls aren’t born.’
‘What a load of bollocks,’ Lara scoffed. ‘Tell that to Carole, my aunt. She had six boys on the trot and the three of them who had kids all had boys as well. Can’t remember hearing of any mermaids living in Penistone.’
A lean youth with chiselled features and a Hugh Grant-style floppy hairdo passed by. He was going to be a very handsome creature one day, May decided.
‘It’s raining men here. It should be a paradise for young women. There are some gods walking around,’ she said.
‘Aren’t there just?’ Clare agreed, thinking of Val Hathersage and his sexy grin.
‘Oh, lookee,’ said Lara with faux joy as she spotted Gene Hathersage buying a coffee at the conical kiosk. ‘It’s one of those handsome gods you were talking about – our helpful and kind landlord buying a coffee from the second rudest man in the world.’
As if hearing her, Gene’s head swivelled and he spotted Lara pointing at him. She had no need to worry that he might come over and indulge in jolly conversation, though. ‘What a Grinch,’ she said with a low growl.
May nodded in faithful agreement but watched him as he bought his coffee. He had a gorgeous body: long legs and big thighs, strong arms and wide shoulders. He would be only slightly dwarfed by Frank if they stood side by side, she reckoned. With his wild hair and mean expression under that beard he looked rather like a monster from a Grimms’ fairy tale having a civilized day off. Funny – and she wouldn’t dare say this to Lara – but May could easily see her feisty friend with a man like Gene Hathersage. They’d spark off each other and have fun doing it. She had never met James but instinct told her that he would be too smooth, too clever and far too serious for Lara. She needed someone who would make her eyes twinkle. She hoped James appreciated Lara and that Lara wasn’t forced to take second place to his achievements.
‘I wish I could get my hands on this place,’ said Lara, her voice bordering on lust.
May knew what she meant. This was the sort of village that would really excite her professionally too. She could easily visualize those old abandoned buildings as new businesses, serving tourists. They were too lovely to be allowed to crumble. Ren Dullem was a diamond that needed a lot of polishing – but nevertheless it was a diamond.
Lara turned in a slow circle to really take in the vista of Ren Dullem: the heart-shaped harbour, the sandy beach below, dotted with stripy deckchairs. She saw the main village with its miscellany of old cottage designs, sweet little shops and tiny intriguing roads twisting up the hillsides. She saw the pretty church with its large brass bell waiting to summon attention, to call the people to prayer on Sundays, and to weddings. And she saw the village square with an ancient maypole at its centre, bustling with market traders selling proper wares not tat. Lastly she saw Gene Hathersage’s bum, and the unconscious smile dropped from her face as she found herself unwittingly appraising it. From the back he looked normal: jeans, shirt, nothing to intimate he was the most impolite, sullen creature on the planet. Artistic temperament, she supposed. She had to give him credit for the talent he obviously had with wood, not that that should excuse him for being a boorish bastard. Stop looking at his bum, Lara. She’d had quite enough of men’s bums for a while. James had a slim bum that looked good in suit trousers. James had a slim white bum that she had last seen whilst he was lying on top of Tianne Lee.
That thought of James blindsided her and brought with it a sharp pain that struck her between the ribs. She wasn’t looking forward to next week when she would have to see him again to retrieve her things from Manor Gardens. There would be a heap of anger and pain waiting to drop on her head when she was within his airspace, she knew.
May nudged her.
‘Shall we go to Jenny’s? I’m a bit peckish. You up for that too, Clare?’
‘I’m always up for food,’ Clare answered, adding to herself, unless it’s fatty beef sandwiches in a plastic package washed down with Nitromors wine.
‘Good idea,’ said Lara, just hoping they didn’t bump into Daisy Unwin. Seeing one village prat was enough for today.
Chapter 48
Before going over to the main house, Joan wiped off her makeup, scraped back her hair, stripped off her jewellery and reacquired her ‘poorly’ look. Then she wrapped herself in a shawl as if chilled to the bone and went off to enquire how Lord Carlton was faring.
Gladys was in the kitchen, her apron off and jacket on, when Joan entered, as meekly as she could.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, Gladys.’
Gladys noted how pale and plain Joan looked today. It brought her kind instincts to the fore and completely disarmed her.
‘Sit down, Joan, before you fall. Are you still not feeling well?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt this ill,’ said Joan. ‘I came to see how Lord Carlton was before I go back to bed. I couldn’t settle. It’s all my fault.’
‘I’m just taking him some tea and soup. I’ve managed to get him into his bed. I must admit, Joan, I thought he was hungover, but seeing as you are in the same boat—’
‘I would put my life on it being those prawns,’ Joan interrupted eagerly, then held her head as if the effort to talk was a little too much.
‘Can I get you a sandwich?’ asked Gladys.
‘That’s very kind, Gladys, but I don’t want to trouble you. I was going to go shopping today but . . .’ Joan cut off her sentence and rubbed her stomach.
‘Look, if you’ve got nothing in your cupboards, there’s plenty of food here to tide you over,’ said Gladys, who always prided herself on keeping the kitchen well stocked. Edwin Carlton liked his food. ‘Please help yourself whilst I take this upstairs before it gets cold.’
‘Are you going home, Gladys?’ Oh please say yes, thought Joan.
‘I’m taking the afternoon off, yes. I’m going to the dentist,’ replied Gladys. ‘I do hope you are feeling better in the morning, Joan.’
‘Thank you, Gladys.’ Joan gave her sweetest smile. ‘Please give him my very best regards.’ She leapt to open the door for Gladys as she lifted the tray.
‘You get what you want from the fridge and the cupboards and I’ll help you carry it to your cottage if you like,’ said Gladys.
‘Don’t you worry; I’ll lock up on my way out.’
Gladys looked suddenly stunned. ‘You have a key?’ She didn’t know that.
‘Yes, Lord Carlton gave me a key,’ replied Joan, playing it down as if it was no big deal. ‘Just for emergencies. I can’t say I’ve had occasion to use it but maybe, if you’re not coming back today, I should pop in later to make sure all is well.’
‘Well, Lord Carlton has his panic button,’ said Gladys, her feathers slightly ruffled.
Joan stepped in quickly to smooth them. ‘It’s entirely up to you, Gladys. If you would rather I didn’t check to see that all was well, I perfectly understand.’
Put like that, with Joan so meek she almost baaed like a lamb, Gladys could barely refuse. ‘That would be very good of you,’ she said, before turning and exiting through the door.
As soon as it shut on her back, Joan dropped her facade and had to stifle a giggle. God, she was good. Five more minutes and Gladys would have been handing over her life savings.
She waited impatiently for Gladys to leave, killing time by having a look in the fridge for something to eat. There were some slices of cold ham which she folded up and popped into her mouth, then she cut off a large slice of oozing Brie and washed it down with some freshly squeezed orange juice. She arranged herself limply by the kettle when she heard Gladys’s footst
eps outside the kitchen.
‘I’ll be off now,’ called the housekeeper through the door. ‘See you in the morning. You take care of yourself and I hope you feel better soon.’
‘Thank you, Gladys. Hope the trip to the dentist goes well.’
Joan heard the mighty front door shut and waited a few minutes just in case Gladys doubled back to check on her. She didn’t. Then Joan strode off in the direction of the study, her long slim legs powered with nervous energy.
Chapter 49
Despite it being market day, Jenny’s café was empty except for May, Clare and Lara. They had a spicy chicken and rice dish, which was delicious, and pecan pie to follow. Clare told them all about her morning – well, the visiting-Raine part of the morning at least.
Jenny wasn’t very chatty today and Lara was convinced she had been warned off from being too friendly to the offcumdens.
God, this place was odd. But it was still preferable to what was waiting for her back home.
Clare insisted on showing them Seymour’s grave in the churchyard, after they had eaten.
‘Illis quos amo deserviam. For those I love I shall sacrifice,’ Lara translated the words carved into the stone.
‘Ah, that’s what it means,’ said Clare. ‘It makes sense now. He knew that he was going to be buried on unhallowed ground and he didn’t give a stuff.’
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